


Of Petrichor and Onion Skins

by pineapplefork



Series: Fear of Storms [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia has PTSD, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, because this is the 13th century, geralt loves jaskier too but doesn't know it yet, relatively graphic description of a traumatic event, undiagnosed and loosely based the actual disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24589555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplefork/pseuds/pineapplefork
Summary: It doesn’t matter if Jaskier has to peel his own layers until he lays, bleeding, in front of the pissed off Witcher, because he is not about to drop the subject.‘Is this—’‘Drop the fucking subject, bard.’Ah. Well. That could have gone smoother.[...] ‘I just want to know why you’re so adamant about getting to that town. I thought we were having such a jolly good time.’ He watches as Geralt works his jaw and he bites back a grin. No one practises a trade as dangerous as his without getting at least a little kick out of seeing a Witcher’s internal battle between their strict moral code and the irrefutable urge to strangle insistent bards.*Geralt abruptly shuts himself off from the outside world. Jaskier suspects it's got something to do with the fast-approaching thunderstorm and sets out to solve the mystery. He has a few realisations of his own, along the way.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fear of Storms [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777429
Comments: 12
Kudos: 138





	Of Petrichor and Onion Skins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azareth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azareth/gifts).



> This started out as "Jaskier makes fun of Geralt for being scared of something he technically shouldn't be scared of" and swiftly became "Geralt is traumatized and Jaskier is too observant for his own good". Detailed CW at the bottom. Mind the tags.
> 
> A gift for @azareth, because their comment on "Hurts you Less" was so nice that I instantly got off my butt to write the first half of this fic in, like, three hours. It took a little longer to finish, but I just wanted to gift it to them as a thanks. You don't have to like it, or even read it, but just know that your comment meant a *lot* to me and I deeply appreciate your input! <333

Geralt is afraid of thunderstorms.

_ Really? That’s the best you could come up with?  _ Jaskier sighs to himself, unsubtly following the witcher’s movements with his gaze as he picks up the pace next to Roach, posture as tense as ever. He’d been trying to figure out the reason his companion had all but tripled the speed at which they were going, seemingly determined to get to an inn in record time. He’d picked and prodded at his friend, all but begging for some sort of explanation, to no avail. Geralt only walked faster, mumbling something about pesky bards and leaving them behind under his breath.

Naturally, he’d followed up with different tactics. After figuratively poking around for answers (ineffective), he began to literally poke Geralt’s side (ineffective, pisses off the already pissed off Witcher). When that didn’t work, he’d settled for a guessing game, of sorts. So far, his ideas had been:

  1. Geralt is ashamed, he doesn’t want to tell Jaskier; (probable, but non-specific.)
  2. Jaskier stinks and Geralt desperately wants him to bathe, but doesn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying it outright; (after a quick sniff of himself and a reminder of how much Geralt actually cares about his feelings— not at all— he decides that can’t be it.)
  3. There is something going on, out of their control, that Geralt can’t kill and Jaskier can’t talk away. For some reason, they want to be as shielded from it as possible. (possible, doesn’t explain Geralt’s silence on the subject.)



He sighs. The thunderstorm idea struck him (heh) after watching several sparrows roll around in sand and noting the fast approaching scary-looking clouds, but he figures that even implying the big, bad Witcher is scared of a little pitter-patter might make Geralt actually fulfill his promise to leave him behind. Perhaps out of a newly found sense of self-preservation, he doesn’t voice any of his guesses, simply trailing after the Witcher. He tries to imagine what could possibly make his friend tense up and instantly turn to march toward the nearest town, when they had been engaged in cheerful banter just moments before.

Jaskier is by no means an expert on reading people, telling truth from lie or unveiling ulterior motives, but he does consider himself nearly fluent in  _ Witcher.  _ Nearly, because even after a half a decade of on-and-off travelling with Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier still knows painfully little about the man behind the facade. Proud as he is of his accomplishments regarding reading into the  _ Witcher’s  _ gestures, grunts and microexpressions, he is at a complete loss when it comes to  _ Geralt’s  _ gestures, grunts and microexpressions. 

Sure, he can tell when the  _ Witcher  _ is hurt or annoyed or satisfied with the petty jabs at Jaskier’s musical talents, but he loses his confidence whenever  _ Geralt  _ becomes hurt, upset, or, gods forbid, content _. _ He is certain that, beneath the layer he’s become accustomed to, there lie several more that the Witcher keeps hidden from the world. Truly, he could wax endless poetic about peeling Geralt of Rivia’s layers like the onion he so often smells of— but, for this particular situation he’s found himself in, it’s only worth noting that the relevant layer is buried deep out of Jaskier’s reach. For now, of course. It doesn’t matter if Jaskier has to peel his own layers until he lays, bleeding, in front of the pissed off Witcher, because he is not about to drop the subject.

‘Is this—’

‘Drop the fucking subject, bard.’

Ah. Well. That could have gone smoother.

‘If you just—’

Geralt turns abruptly. ‘Jaskier.’ His voice is sharp. Were it not for his incessant attempts to get a rise out of the Witcher, Jaskier would have said it’s the sharpest he’s ever heard it. He feigns innocence with the ease of someone who pesters Witchers for a living. Or, he guesses, this particular Witcher. Lambert and Eskel mostly make for side-gigs.

‘Yes, Geralt, dearest?’ Jaskier bats his eyelashes in the way he knows will annoy Geralt just enough to make his resolve crack a tiny bit. ‘I just want to know why you’re so adamant about getting to that town. I thought we were having such a jolly good time.’ He watches as Geralt works his jaw and he bites back a grin. No one practises a trade as dangerous as his without getting at least a little kick out of seeing a Witcher’s internal battle between their strict moral code and the irrefutable urge to strangle insistent bards.

Geralt doesn’t make a move to leave, but Jaskier watches as his gaze sets somewhere in the distance, above and beyond him. He almost takes pity on the poor Witcher, but his goal must be met before they actually reach the inn and Geralt has an excuse to lock himself away and avoid him until morning.

‘You don’t have to tell me outright.’ Jaskier grins. ‘But if I guess correctly, you have to let me know.’ Geralt doesn’t make any move to indicate his agreement, but Jaskier is actively observing his body language and takes note of the slight purse of lips, almost unnoticeable to people who don’t speak Witcher. Jaskier would much rather speak Geralt, too, but alas, that can’t happen overnight.

Still, he taps his chin with a finger, almost tauntingly. Geralt doesn’t move. ‘See, my first guess was that I desperately needed a bath and you were so intent on sparing my feelings about it, that you couldn’t bear to tell me that upfront.’ Jaskier watches for any involuntary flex of facial muscle, but his friend’s expression remains stoic. At least he’s playing along, even if he won’t meet his eyes. ‘Then, I wondered. If you’re so vehemently against telling me, it must have something to do with you, right? I wouldn’t go so far as to say you were embarrassed—’  _ tiny eyebrow raise  _ ‘— but maybe it’s something that’s simply none of my business.’

Geralt finally makes eye contact. ‘Precisely.’

‘So you  _ are _ embarrassed?’  _ Minute twitch of the left eyelid.  _

‘No.’

Jaskier gives Geralt the benefit of the doubt, partially because he doesn’t want to jump to conclusions and partially because, if he gets excited, the change in heartbeat and scent will give him away. He remains neutral, for the time being. ‘My third guess was that we are in some sort of danger that neither of us can avoid,’ he continues,  _ minuscule nostril flare, _ gesturing broadly, ‘but that still doesn’t explain your reluctance to tell me about it!’

‘Told you,’ Geralt growls, which would threaten anyone who wasn’t as close as Jaskier was to solve a mystery, ‘it’s none of your. Fucking. Business.’ With that, Geralt turns and strides away.

‘My fourth guess was that you’re scared of thunderstorms, you know—’ And Geralt’s steps don’t falter, of course they don’t, he’s a fucking Witcher, but his hands, previously balled into loose fists, tighten ever so slightly. It takes all of Jaskier’s hard earned self control not to break into a cheer, because  _ yes, he knew it! He fucking knew it! He’s afraid of storms! _ Instead, he keeps his pride to himself and keeps talking. ‘But you definitely wouldn’t have wasted time to indulge my little game if that were the case. Still, those clouds don’t look friendly. Let’s go.’ Jaskier casts a brief glance behind him, taking in the intimidating view of dark skies looming over thick expanses of trees and swiftly catches up to Geralt. He doesn’t miss how the Witcher visibly relaxes when Jaskier stops prodding. He smiles a little and inwardly promises to keep the teasing to a mininum when the rain inevitably hits and they’re tucked away, safe in the comfort of a hopefully welcoming inn.

*

Fortunately, the rain doesn’t start right away. Thanks to the brutal pace at which Geralt demands they walk towards the nearest town, they find themselves haggling the price of accommodation soon after Jaskier decided to shut his mouth. Does the fact that his silence considerably boosts the efficiency of their travel offend him? A little bit, yeah. The fact that Geralt is insistently asking for two rooms offends him more than a little bit, though. 

‘Good Sir— Witcher— Witcher Sir, please do understand that we’ve only one room left. It’s got two beds and enough space for you and your companion.’ The woman behind the bar they’re sat at looks positively frightened. While Jaskier feels a tang of pity at her obvious distress, he’d much rather deal with scared villagers than angry ones, with pitchforks and twisted morals.

Underneath his composure, which is starting to fray at the edges, Jaskier can see that Geralt’s patience is running thin. ‘I don’t care if you have to kick someone out, I  _ need _ two rooms. I’ll pay whatever fee you require.’

‘Geralt, we don’t have the coin—’ Jaskier hisses under his breath, but stops mid-sentence when he feels Geralt’s hand shoot out to grab his thigh,  _ hard.  _ He clamps his jaw shut, trying to will away the tears that prickle at the back of his eyes. He lets go soon after and even though Jaskier is trying to zero in on the conversation between the Witcher and the innkeeper, the pain flares with the sudden lack of pressure on his muscles. It  _ hurts _ , but he grinds his teeth and shifts his focus. 

This particular building doesn’t have a place to serve ale and meals on the bottom floor, which means peace and quiet at night but little opportunity to play for coin. If there truly is a storm coming, which is quite likely, there’s a half and half chance for him to find the local tavern either full to the brim or desolate. He mentally makes a point to ask the innkeeper for directions after she’s done with Geralt.  _ Right, Geralt.  _ Jaskier promptly ignores the throbbing in his thigh and forces himself to concentrate on their conversation.

‘...this enough?’ The innkeeper counts the coins in a bag she’s just been handed. It looks heavy, even for the price of two rooms. She purses her lips and watches the both of them with caution.

‘I’ll see what I can do. Might want to grab a meal at the tavern before the storm hits. It should be bustling at this hour, but tell them Marlene sent you and I’m sure they’ll find a table.’ She gives them directions and walks through a door Jaskier hadn’t noticed before.

Geralt stalls for a moment and Jaskier doesn’t bother to ask about his thoughts. He rubs the sore spot on his leg and stands up with a wince the Witcher probably doesn’t notice. “I’ll be at the tavern, earning back the coin  _ someone _ just wasted on separate rooms,” he wants to say, but he feels his blood thrum against the bruises inevitably forming on his skin and thinks better of it. Instead, he mutters a “see you tomorrow” he knows Geralt will hear, but won’t grace with a reply.

*

The tavern is roaring with cheer and good spirit as Jaskier plays the role of his life. If he favours his left leg and avoids songs that bring unnecessary light to the White Wolf, nobody says anything about it. His repertoire is wide enough that he can dutifully satisfy a whole building with songs about captivating adventures and frightening creatures rather than how much of a hero Geralt of Rivia is. He sings his praise to Eskel and Lambert, still, because even though he is but a petty bard, he won’t let his hurt feelings get in the way of other Witchers who have never been anything but kind to him. 

By the time his left leg cramps up and his calluses have cuts so deep Jaskier thinks they’ll soon blend into the lute, the noise in the tavern has considerably subsided. He had watched as more and more people looked out the windows at the increasingly dark sky and slowly trickled outside, though few left without slipping several coins into the case of his lute. It wasn’t the richest town, but the people had sent up mead as well as stew with fresh bread, which made for a satisfying performance, all in all. 

It’s dark outside when he eventually packs up his lute, the bag of coin which might make for just over half of what Geralt spent and trots outside. He half-expects the town to be drenched, large streams of muddy water running down the trenches dug to prevent floods, but is instead met by a single drop landing on the tip of his nose. He crosses his eyes and scrunches his nose instinctively, but doesn’t have time to ponder before the skies open up and effectively douse him in an unhealthy volume of summer rainwater. Jaskier shrieks and all but runs back to the inn, thanking the gods above that it’s nearby.

He’s just short of completely soaked when he enters the building, the wind slamming the door behind him. Thunder roars in the distance. He convinces himself the shiver that runs down his spine is from the cold. The innkeeper gives him a warm but somewhat strained smile and leads him up to his room. She tells him where to find towels and apologises for the lack of a bath, while Jaskier looks around the room and ignores the hurt that settles in his chest when he notes the single bed and distinct lack of Witcher.

‘You managed to find two rooms for us, then? Thank you.’ She nods to the room adjacent to his and scurries away too soon to notice how quickly Jaskier’s polite smile sours. A lovely lady, that one, he’s sure, but he can’t help the way his lips curl in on themselves or the way he can’t seem to blink back tears for the second time that day.

‘Five and a half years, huh? Best friend, my ass.’ He tries to be angry, he really does. He knows his emotions are dramatic, but he’s much better at keeping them in check when there’s a Witcher teasing him and giving him smiles so soft he sometimes thinks they’ll break. It’s not the first time he’s alone in a room. Hell, if he pretends he and Geralt have just split up for a season or two maybe he won’t feel so fucking alone anymore. He tries to pretend, but his thigh is still pulsing with the memory of a too-strong grasp, the roof of the inn is creaking with the pressure of the rain, the wind outside howls violently and the fog is so thick he can barely see the downpour through the tiny window. 

His heart, traiturous little thing, squeezes when he thinks of Geralt, and how just today he discovered one of his fears. A wet, hollow laugh escapes Jaskier’s lips, followed by a cough. Damn the fucking Witcher for worming his way into Jaskier’s soul and leaving a Geralt-shaped hole every time he decided he didn’t need his bard. Another wrecked laugh, cut off by a sob.  _ Pitiful _ , Jaskier thinks, catching his warped reflection in the dirty window. 

Still, his thoughts drift towards the Witcher. ‘He’s scared of storms. He needs me.’ No, the Witcher isn’t scared of storms. The White Wolf had his fear beaten out of him during his training. ‘The White Wolf, yes. But Geralt?’ Fucking Geralt. ‘Geralt needs me.’ Geralt doesn’t _want_ him. Jaskier has convinced himself he is needed by the White Wolf’s side, that he can help his reputation, he can do what no human has dared to do before and love a Witcher. He scoffs, as if the conversation he’s having with himself isn’t already delusional without him offering genuine reactions. ‘I never wanted to love _a_ Witcher. I wanted to love Geralt. And I got my fucking wish, apparently.’ But Geralt _is_ a Witcher. It’s not— 

These aren’t two people he’s talking about. The conflict between these two sets of values he so often sees reflected in his friend’s eyes isn’t— 

He loves  _ one  _ person, truly. Not just a fleeting, surface love to warm his heart like a bath a few degrees short of hot enough. He loves Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher of the Wolf School, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken. He loves the person whose sadness is palpable when cats hiss at him but who pets each and every dog that isn’t scared. He loves the person who lost a part of himself during the Trials but finds it again, home, with his brothers, every winter. He loves the person who fearlessly slays beasts that plague commoners’ nightmares and inspires him to write song, after ballad, after poem. He loves the person who carries baggage too heavy to bear alone. 

Of course, there are layers to the one he loves. Heavens know when he’ll be able to peel them all away,  _ if  _ that will ever happen. ‘Fuck me up if I don’t love this man with everything I have,’ he says to nobody in particular. He says it to himself, so he doesn’t say  _ I love you, Geralt  _ when he inevitably busts into his Witcher’s room. Fuck him if he’s still not mad, if he still can’t feel the bruises on his thigh, but the layers are there, even if they all belong to one person. Maybe he sings about the White Wolf. Maybe it’s the Witcher of the Wolf School who bared his teeth and threatened to leave him behind. Maybe it’s the fucking Butcher of Blaviken who hurt him when he was at the edge of his self-control. But it’s Geralt, in that room next to his, who is scared of thunderstorms. And fuck Jaskier if he doesn’t love all of them like he’s never loved before. 

In spite of the wobble in his knees and the tears he has to wipe from his cheeks, Jaskier stands.

*

Geralt is five years old when he witnesses his first thunderstorm. 

In Kaer Morhen, the quiet keeps him company and the sturdy walls are either protective shields or claustrophobic traps, depending on the day. He hasn’t made any friends yet, but Master Vesemir looks at him in a way his mother never did. He feels like the soft smile his trainer gives him whenever Geralt grins to show his missing front teeth is their own little secret. He doesn’t see Master Vesemir smile at other boys, and it makes his chest feel fuzzy.

It’s when the two of them have finished a sparring lesson that he sees Master Vesemir furrow his thick eyebrows, gaze following something behind Geralt. He turns to look at the scattering of sparrows that rub their feathers in a patch of sand and at the darkening clouds above. Vesemir’s nostrils flare slightly and, if he strains his senses a little bit, he can pick up an earthy scent he isn’t quite familiar with.

‘Go inside, boy.’ barks Vesemir. Geralt isn’t sure he understands, but does as he’s told.

Later that night, he lets the heavy rumble of rain soothe his ears. His eyes widen in surprised glee when he sees what he’s understood to be lightning and even if the noise of thunder scares him a little bit, he can’t help but think  _ I want to be outside, next time.  _

Next time, he feels the scent of petrichor before any other tell-tale signs. It’s barely been two years since the last storm and Vesemir seems slightly off-put by how frequent they seem. Geralt tries to hide, but Vesemir is a Witcher and Geralt is a mere trainee, so he yelps when his Master cuffs him over the head and runs inside. Within the walls of Kaer Morhen, though, he grows bold. His heart beats a steady rhythm as he wanders the hallways he grew up in, only faltering in excitement, never fear. When he finds the room that bears the largest window of the keep, a perfect opening for him to watch the storm shake the trees outside and darken the sky in the distance, he bites back a grin and waits.

In hindsight, it probably would have been better if Geralt had been one of the bratty ones, if he didn’t try to outsmart orders but outright disobeyed them. He would have gotten a thorough whipping but everything would have been fine. 

Perhaps his mind wouldn’t have made connections stronger than anything they tried to beat into him about monsters and ways to kill them. Perhaps if he had been outside, or if he had climbed a tree and fallen along with it, he could find a way to rationalise this connection and find a loophole.  _ If you don’t put yourself in harm’s way, you won’t get harmed. You only got hurt because you didn’t listen. Next time, listen, and it will be all right.  _ Geralt had listened. The orders had been “go inside”, so he went. Perhaps it would have been better if— 

The storm had been fascinating. 

He watched with rapt attention as the first few droplets fell and splashed on the thin window in front of him. Two, three, then the wind picked up and there were hundreds. He couldn’t keep count. The window dirtied but he pressed his nose to the cool glass, following as many movements as he could at once. He ignored the rattle of the window, gasping when a thin stripe of light blasted with purpose somewhere in the distance, extending itself in branches along the way, then squeaked as the thunder roared and seemed to shake the entire keep from the inside.

_ Beautiful,  _ he thought, but a splatter of warm colours suddenly joined Geralt’s canvas and it happened so fast that his seven-year-old mind didn’t have time to process the progression of it all. He remembers changes, though. An abrupt change from the slight chill of the keep to a howling gust of wind in his face, the warmth of his skin pricked by tens of tiny needles, warm,  _ wet _ , trickling, cold,  _ wet _ , prickling,  _ hot _ , ow, grazing,  _ hot, ow, hot hot hot  _ **_ow—_ **

It’s easier to make sense of the images, later. If he hadn’t been sure what happened then, nearly a century ago, he  _ has _ to be sure every single time a storm comes and his brain forces him into a fucking frenzy. The fear had been beaten out of him. The physical manifestations of distress, too. He could keep the flashes at bay, when he didn’t have to think about it. But all it took was the steady pitter-patter of heavy droplets outside, the occasional burst of thunder and the sound of wind making trees and buildings creak.

He learned his lesson the first time he didn’t bother to get a room during a storm. Out of all things, pride wasn’t one they had tortured out of him. Instead, it was the flashes that tore down his carefully-constructed defenses, essentially smacking him where it hurt most and saying  _ not enough.  _

Every time, it was roughly the same. Sometimes it was worse. First, he smelled it. The hairs on his nape would struggle to rise, but he would will them back down, will his heart into a steady rhythm. Then, something would tug at his chest like a child tugging on his arm to grab his attention.  _ Watch,  _ he’d hear his mind sing,  _ it’s beautiful.  _ Every time, he almost believed it.

Every time he’d almost convince himself  _ this time it won’t be that bad, this time I’ll learn to keep it in check,  _ he feels the pain, in precisely the same succession he did a century ago, like his own mind was fucking mocking him. His breath would hitch. His blood ran cold. His head would fill witch ice and cotton but he could  _ feel  _ the heat tickling his fingertips, he could  _ feel  _ the blood soar through his veins, warm then cold then  _ hot _ then  _ freezing  _ then  _ scorching _ ,  _ dripping, through his fingers through his ears and nose and mouth and eyes— or are those tears? — then it’s dousing him, he’s wet wet wet and hot and cold and wet he’s on fire he’s wet but flames are swallowing his skin and there are shards they’re stuck in his arms legs chest face and he’s on fire he’s wet and hot and cold and—  _

If he’s inside, he has an anchor. He locks all entrances and exits, his room is dry and his hands can  _ feel _ that he’s not in a storm, he’s not in Kaer Morhen, Vesemir is no longer looking over him and picking bloody shards out of his skin and rubbing salve over the burns and frowning at him. If he’s inside, and he knows, in the part of his mind where rationality wins over emotion— that part is all of it, except during storms— he remembers the fond smile his Master gave him then, those first years. Never again, after the storm, but he gave it to Geralt then and it means that if he can think about it now, it’ll ground him. 

It usually works. Not always. 

He didn’t know how he avoided mixing a storm with an annoying bard for five years, but he had managed. He didn’t know what god had been on his side, but every time the storm hit together with the flashes, he had been alone. Until today. No, today he had spent nearly all his coin for two rooms, so he could sift through the flashes in peace, will the pain away in peace, dig his nails into the heels of his hands until he left crescent-shaped wounds  _ in fucking peace. _ And that had been the plan. A good plan, if nothing else. A steady one, albeit prone to fail when paired with the whirlwind that was Jaskier. 

Normally, he would have smelled him before he heard him, in the room next to his.

Normally, his mind would be swimming with flashes of thunderstorm and forest fire, a single soft smile and the steady frown that took its place, the hot flare of pierced skin and the chill of wind sweeping the blood off his face. 

Instead, he felt everything and more. The split-second of a blazing tree smashing through a thin, rattly window—blue eyes framed by dark lashes— the scream of a child engulfed by flames—  _ my fourth guess was that you’re scared of thunderstorms, you know—  _ an army of Witchers, his Master in the front, busting through a door—  _ he’s scared of storms, he needs me—  _ his limbs and head, picked up ever so gently by sword-calloused hands—  _ I wanted to love Geralt—  _ the frown, the fucking frown, he doesn’t know what is in his mind and what is real anymore, he’s sure he hadn’t felt the sting of splinters and the crack of wood at Kaer Morhen but—  _ fuck me up if I don’t love this man with everything I have— _ the storm outside is picking up, the wind is howling in his ear and a door handle clatters and the dark room lights up with an unmistakable bout of lightning and then there’s thunder, but he doesn’t know if it’s his pounding heart of the clouds outside or someone banging on a door—  _ Geralt, open up—  _ but it’s ringing in his ear and he feels hot and cold again and—  _ Geralt, I’m bringing this door down—  _ and there’s so much noise, noise,  _ noise noise noise  _ and then something happens in the room. It’s loud, but then it’s quiet. There’s someone in front of him,  _ soft smile,  _ and Geralt is extremely disoriented but,  _ blue eyes framed by dark lashes.  _

‘Geralt.’  _ Soft smile. Soft voice.  _ He knows this voice. His eyes close of their own accord, but he feels soft hands gently pry his fists, and— 

He opens his eyes and looks down at them. He sees splinters and scratches and a little bit of blood, but there are soft hands holding him and there is a soothing voice whispering close to him, but not too close. There’s a presence next to him, but he can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from his hands. There are too many fingers in his lap. If he focuses— the voice is constant, peaceful,  _ soft _ , it helps— he can count. Ten fingers are his own, he knows this. They are ugly, battered and calloused, but there are other fingers, decidedly not his own, that rub his ugly hands in little circles. Those are smaller than his, also calloused but less so. They feel familiar, they—

He wills himself to raise his head, and he is met with an expression so open, earnest and adoring that it makes his chest tighten painfully. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, words are registered, but it hurts his head if he tries to process them. He closes his eyes again, focuses on the hands massaging his own and drifts.

*

Jaskier isn’t sure if what he’s doing is helping, but Geralt is no longer breaking the furniture with his bare hands and his breaths have evened out, which, he supposes, are good signs. He sighs, watches the Witcher’s face as his eyes close and his brows lose their furrow. Jaskier is sure he’s wearing a dopey smile that would have greatly embarrassed him— anywhere else, but here. Whenever else, but now. Now, he is content to keep humming the lullaby and watch over Geralt.

*

When he rouses, Geralt feels like he’s been stripped bare, skin peeled off, devoid of any sort of defense. Vulnerable, insecure, disoriented. His head spins, but when his eyes finally manage to focus, he sees the same pair of blue eyes framed by dark lashes that he has been seeing for the better part of the last five years. He ignores the way his heart flips in his chest at the sight. “You’re here,” he wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, ‘Why?’ he growls. “Defenseless” is not a word he wants to become familiar with.

It’s somehow as if Jaskier knows what he’s doing, what the thoughts behind his words are without even asking. ‘You’ve every right to be wary, but please don’t growl at me. You’re safe, the storm’s passed. I’m here.’ 

_ He’s here.  _ Geralt looks down. Jaskier’s hands are still in his.  _ He’s here. _ ‘How long?’ “How long have I been out?” he means to ask, but Jaskier understands.

‘Long enough. How do you feel?’ Geralt’s instincts scream at him to  _ get away, danger, danger, weak, get away _ , but he tries, nonetheless.

‘Jaskier, I—’ he begins, but is quickly interrupted by a hiss. His mind catches up with his body and Geralt notices he’s absently moved his hand to squeeze at the bard’s thigh. He snatches his hand away as if burnt and feels his brows draw in confusion. ‘Does that hurt?’

He expects Jaskier to brush it off as a sensitive love bite, to smile in that awfully charismatic, sheepish way of his and move on. Instead, he is met with a stern, yet kind, gaze. ‘Do you remember when we were asking for a room, you were determined to spend all our coin and I tried to tell you it’d be a horrible idea?’

Geralt does, but his head hasn’t quite stopped spinning and he isn’t sure what to make of Jaskier’s words. ‘I do.’

‘You grabbed my leg, to… Shut me up.’

His eyebrows rise up to his hairline. ‘I did that?’ He hadn’t even noticed he was frowning, but he’s sure it’s deepened, now. ‘Show me.’

A pause. Jaskier is watching him. ‘How about you quit the protective act when you’ve just managed to climb down from barely-contained panic, hm?’ His words have bite, but, for all the guilt that has started to swirl in Geralt’s chest, the bard doesn’t sound  _ too  _ upset.

‘I’m sorry. I—’ His neck all but clogs up. He wants to say more, so much more, but he  _ can’t. _ He’s hurt his bard.

His bard, at least, seems amused by Geralt’s inability to string together more than three words at a time. ‘Hm,’ he says, and Geralt feels  _ mocked. _

‘Why aren’t you yelling at me? You should be mad, enraged, livid.’ He eventually finds his words, but they still come out all growly and such. It’s never bothered him before. Now it does, that he can’t properly carry a fucking conversation in the rare case that he does want to.

‘Oh,  _ darling _ ,’ Jaskier purrs, and the sheer viciousness of it feels like a lash across a bare back, ‘I am mad. Will be for some time now. You’re a fucking prick.’ Geralt’s chest pathetically uncoils at the familiar harshness, which he pitifully uses as an anchor. Spite he can deal with, anger he can deal with, even if the idea of  _ Jaskier _ directing these feelings at him sours something in his stomach, deserved as they are. The soft look he had been regarded with before had the power to crumble all the walls Geralt was scrambling to reassemble. Jaskier continues talking, seemingly unaware of his inner turmoil. Geralt doesn’t look at him when he speaks. 

‘But I’ve also had time to think. You’re a fucking moron for not telling me, because even now, the only thing I understand is that you deliberately cut off the entire outside world to… What, exactly? Take out your frustration on furniture we don’t have the funds to replace?’ His voice is unbearably  _ soft  _ again, like he’s talking to a child he doesn’t want to scare away. Geralt feels his walls crack under the pressure of it. He swallows. Maybe he is a fucking moron, because he does these things to himself. He’s been dragged through the depths of his fucked up mind and back today, he isn’t sure if he can fight an especially insistent bard any longer. Looking up to meet Jaskier’s eyes should feel like defeat, like knowingly allowing his walls to properly collapse, but it feels like a pleasant tide washing over him, instead. He wishes he could cry.

Jaskier’s eyes are brimming with tears, so full of an emotion not even Geralt can deny, but he’s fucking weak, that’s what he is. He lets the bard continue.

‘And one of the things I thought about today, Geralt, was that you’re like a fucking onion.’ Any other day, any other moment, Geralt would have snorted and brushed him off. He doesn’t. ‘The more layers I peel off, the more time I spend trying to understand how to read you, what you need, what you  _ want,  _ the more it fucking hurts.’ Geralt feels like he understands. It hurts for him, too. ‘But I want this, too. I want to be by your side. I want to tease you about you about your fears but I  _ don’t  _ want you to feel like you have to lock yourself away from the world just to exist. You don’t have to let me peel off every single layer, but I’d like to. Even if it takes me decades, if I’ll die by your side— ’  _ Don’t say that.  _ ‘ — and I still haven’t gotten to truly, wholeheartedly know you, I’ll be happy. Because this morning, I was talking to a Witcher and right now, I’m talking to Geralt, and that’s enough for me.’

Her really fucking wishes he could cry.

He doesn’t know when it happens, but suddenly his lips are against Jaskier and they’re kissing,  _ kissing, he’s kissing me _ , and if his gaze alone was a pleasant tide before, now he feels submerged, engulfed by a sea of Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier, his bard, his friend, Jaskier who came to him, Jaskier who didn’t run away, Jaskier who knows the White Wolf and the Witcher and knows Geralt, too, just a little bit. It’s Geralt who is kissing Jaskier, and if he has to skin himself alive to prove to him that  _ yes, he wants it, he just doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know what to do when his fortress falls, but he wants the waves to wash off the pain so fucking bad,  _ then he’ll do it, if it means Geralt gets to keep Jaskier looking at him like that, speaking to him like that, kissing him like that.

When they break off, it’s because Jaskier is human and he has to breathe. The grin that splits his features also splits Geralt in two, and his skin feels ablaze. Jaskier is panting, but he still can’t seem to shut up.

‘I want you, and that means every part of you. Do you think you’ll ever let me in?’ The question seems pointless, hurried, as if Jaskier is expecting something Geralt has no clue how to predict. But it’s not hard to read between the lines when you’ve travelled with someone for the past five years. Jaskier has his layers, too, and this particular one Geralt hasn’t often been privy to. “Will I get my heart broken, if I try?”, Jaskier doesn’t say, but Geralt hears it.

He sees the sincerity in his eyes, laced with an insecurity Geralt is eerily familiar with. He owes it to Jaskier to think about his answer, to be as honest as possible. The fear of disappointment sits hot and tight in his stomach, but he thinks about Jaskier’s easy smiles, the way he has laid his heart bare in song, poem and speech so many times, for Geralt to chew, taste and either swallow or spit at his will. He owes it to Jaskier an honest answer, if not a proper one.

‘I don’t know.’ Well. That’s that.

Jaskier only smiles.  _ Soft.  _ ‘That’s okay. We have time.’

Tomorrow, Geralt offers him a ride on Roach and Jaskier grants him the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. And if he holds the bard a little tighter to his chest and conveniently forgets about his threats to leave him behind, well, nobody has to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, okay. Apparently I have a profound urge to make Geralt suffer. He truly deserves better, but alas. When inspiration strikes, it strikes!
> 
> CW: (relatively spoiler-y) Geralt's come to associate storms with an accident he suffered, where, during a forest fire caused by lightning, a tree fell, breaking the window he was watching the rain through. He's 7 when it happens and, as you can imagine, the scars it left are more than physical. The precise turn of events isn't detailed in the fic, but it's rather presented as what Geralt makes of the flashbacks he gets during storms. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and bookmarks are appreciated, but comments make me want to write more! <3


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